


Ridin' High

by Blake



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Collected m/m Napollya drabbles
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Kudos: 32





	1. I love Paris

Illya never imagined he would love Paris. He thought it would be less vibrant than Rome, less efficient than London, and of course less cultured than Leningrad. He considered that the food might be as good as they say it is, but he worried about fitting his unsophisticated frame inside any of the shops and restaurants. 

So he’s surprised when he finds himself falling madly in love with it. He walks the left bank in the rain, reveling in the smell of wet pavement, fondness curling in his heart at the way the rosy gray of the stone buildings blends into the cloud-darkened sunset. He eats more tiny baked sweets than he has ever had in his life and laughs like a child at the sugar and the creamy messes they leave. He sweats in the stench of the metro, amazed by all the lovers, old and young, gazing stupidly and sweetly at one another as though they are oblivious to the bustling world outside themselves. He follows a mark for hours through stuffy, tourist-filled corridors of museums and never once gets bored, entertaining himself by looking unabashedly at marble statues of nude men. And when he exits the museum, he closes his eyes, smelling the filth of the nearby river and feeling at peace with the world.

He absolutely loves Paris.

And if Napoleon Solo was strolling by his side along the left bank, their hands brushing together every so often with a knowing glance; if Napoleon was pushing those sweet desserts into his mouth after breaking them open with his own teeth, waiting for Illya to lick the last of the cream off his fingers; if Napoleon was pressed front to back against him in the crowded metro, breathing into his ears endless tender reminders of what they did the night before as they watched lovers with more freedom kissing on the platform; if Illya was biting his cheek looking at the thighs and buttocks of each statue to compare them to the muscles he so recently enjoyed clutching closer and closer to him; if Napoleon’s voice was in his ear as he left the museum, assuring him that Gaby had eyes on their mark and he was free to come back to Napoleon’s cramped hotel room and go over some figures together, well. That was another thing entirely. 


	2. ridin' high

Napoleon plays it cool for a few days afterwards, waiting for Illya to rescind his proposal to move in together. He tries not to get his hopes up too high, but when they stop in New York, Illya comes straight to his apartment and packs their clothes in the same suitcase the next day before their flight to Reno. Napoleon is charmingly concerned that he might have to one day explain to Illya that it might be dangerously obvious for them to share a suitcase and walk into the same building every night, but there’s no imminent danger, so he allows himself to wallow in the _charmed_ part.

He kisses Illya in the bathroom of their Reno hotel room, kisses him while he’s on the phone with room service to order ice. He kisses him like kissing him is part of his life and his future, lazily, with no fear of the resource running out.

By the time they wake up in the hotel room the next morning, Napoleon decides he’s given enough room for Illya to change his mind, and now is the time to revel in his victory. He re-ties Illya’s already straight tie and sighs. “I’ll never get anything done once you move in with me, will I?”

“Probably not.” Illya steals a kiss and then leaves to do recon.

Napoleon soon leaves to meet with his nefarious target under false circumstances at a casino at eleven in the morning, which is the perfect scene for such a meeting. He pauses on his way down the street in front of a furniture store. There’s a little table in the window that’s a little colorful for his taste, but he can imagine it in his living room, with Illya’s favorite tea mug on it, and so he buys it and has it shipped to New York.

His nefarious friend is looking for someone to commiserate about miserable marriages with, so Napoleon plays the part, all the while thinking about how he can’t wait to clean Illya’s toothpaste out of his sink. Twenty years of roaming like a stray, and suddenly all he wants is to share his life with someone, and it happens to be someone who wants it, too.

He convinces the guy to go the poker tables, because he’s riding high and feeling lucky. Napoleon wins enough to buy two more pieces of nice furniture and have them shipped.

By the time Illya comes back to their hotel that night, Napoleon has had an entire bottle of champagne to himself and popped open a second.

“What’s this?” Illya asks with that furrow in his brow that proves he’s smart enough to find Napoleon annoying, that he’s not suffering under some delusion. Still, he takes a sip from the glass Napoleon hands him and still, he kisses Napoleon, soft and breathtaking as the first time, as all the times to come.

“This is me gloating,” Napoleon answers, refusing to explain any further than that when there are so many better things to be done. 


	3. love for sale

“Have you ever been paid?” Illya asks, in Napoleon’s hotel room, which Napoleon has noticed is the only place he asks the questions he’s truly curious about.

Napoleon folds his newspaper and lays it on his crossed legs. He suspects Illya is truly curious about the details of Napoleon’s upcoming night, but it’s more fun to make him say the words than it is to expose how adept Napoleon has become at anticipating his partner’s every thought. “Do really think me such a talented thief that I could afford to work for free?”

“For sex,” Illya blurts out before Napoleon even finishes his question. Napoleon studies his the tight contours of his face, wondering if the nerve he’s somehow struck is jealousy, judgment, or some combination of the two.

Treading carefully, Napoleon takes a sip of wine, waiting to see if Illya will resume his evening routine or continue staring holes through Napoleon’s skull. After a minute without a response, Illya returns to the dresser and strips off his turtleneck. It’s a muscular display that Napoleon would be wholly engrossed by, if he wasn’t concerned by what was motivating it. “I have never had sex without being paid.”

Illya goes predictably tense. Napoleon takes a sip of wine, watching Illya’s shoulders bunching as he breathes. “I don’t pay you,” Illya says to the wall, apparently both unwilling to display his facial expressions and unaware of how telling the muscles of his back are. 

It takes three steps for Napoleon to plaster himself to Illya’s spine, holding his thick bare waist in two hands and kissing the top of his shoulder, resisting Illya’s halfhearted attempt to twist away. “You pay me every single time,” Napoleon whispers wetly against Illya’s skin. He hates exposing his feelings, but he rolls his hips forward, lets Illya feel how exciting and pleasurable and rewarding it is just to hold him and taste his skin. The fissures in his heart cracks open incrementally further each time Illya passes up an opportunity to run away in an offended huff and lets himself sink into Napoleon’s hands instead. “In pleasure, and beauty. In fact I’m sure I’ve built up a significant debt to you.”

Illya laughs, wordlessly dropping his elbows to the top of the dresser. Napoleon supposes that means he’s satisfied his curiosity.


End file.
